


To Build A Home

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Series: The Problem With Galas [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: And we are all okay with this, Angst, Batman is Batdad, Big crowds, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce Wayne is intensely awkward, Dad Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is short, Dick is a precious smol bean, Dick is tiny and new to this rich person life, Dick just wants to go home, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Galas, Gen, Kid Dick Grayson - Freeform, Paparazzi, Probably AU but it' totally worth it, Protective Bruce Wayne, Reporters, Reporters are jerks, Socialites - Freeform, Tiny Robin, We still love him though, and adorable, and i love him, daddy bats, daddy!Bats, give him a break, he must be protected at all costs, well he's trying at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: Galas are an issue, because something always goes wrong, and no one knows this better than Dick Grayson. (It's a bit of a problem, actually, but he can always depend on Bruce to get him out of trouble.)In which Dick is eight, attending his first gala, still trying to get used to an awkward guardian who is still getting used to this whole parenting thing, and there are reporters.They figure things out, eventually.





	To Build A Home

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo.....
> 
> I am essentially weak for any fics where Dick Grayson gets kidnapped, captured, or hurt in any way and people come and help him out, especially if that person is Bruce.
> 
> It's a problem.
> 
> SO HAVE SOME TINY BABY ROBIN AND THE NASTY REPORTER AND BIG OL DADDY BATS SAVING THE DAY.

They were in a limo.

A few months ago, Dick would probably be ecstatic to simply be driving in any old car, much less a limo. (You just didn’t _do_ automobiles in the circus, sticking with trains and elephants and horses and a long line of trailers for the daily transportation.)

But that would have been a few months ago. Now he just felt apprehensive and nervous and terribly _small_ , choked in his brand new suit that clenched at his neck and was _far_ too tight for any proper movement.

Bruce was sitting across from him, reading quickly through some last minute paperwork. Dick wondered what it was, and if Bruce would let him sit closer and read over his shoulder, or even help him, even though it would probably be boring and incomprehensible. It would, at the very least, keep his mind off his nerves.

But no, they were already pulling up at another massive house- _What was it with rich people and humongous mansions?_ \- and Bruce was shifting the papers back into a ledger, where they would be stored for the car ride home. Dick could see through the window the shifting shapes of people, could hear the muted chatter. He looked up at Bruce, biting his lip, and the older man had one of the look again, the one where he recognized that Dick was feeling upset or sad or anxious, but has not a single clue as to what to do about it.

But Bruce always tried, and Dick knew how to direct him, and that was the important thing.

He took the large calloused hand with his far smaller fingers, gripping it like a lifeline and trying not to sound _too_ terrified.

“Just for an hour, right?”

And Bruce smiled, that small twitch of the lips that meant he cared- that small smile that was Dick’s secret, the greatest secret in the whole wide world, the one that came out for him alone and for no one else- and squeezed his fingers back.

“Just an hour.”

The door opened.

Immediately, there was a barrage of flashing lights and yelling voices. Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest; he had heard there would be reporters, but he hadn’t been suspecting it to be like _this_ . There were so many, and they were everywhere, and their faces were eager and predatory and suddenly hiding behind Bruce seemed like a really, _really_ great idea.

So he did just that.

Bruce was smiling, but not the kind of smile that Dick was used to. His smile was wide and bright, but in an overwhelmingly fake way. It was as if Bruce had suddenly become a different person, one of the many fancy people who lived in their big mansions and didn’t care about the lowly lives of people like Dick. Dick swallowed, hard, and gripped Bruce’s hand. He was scared, he was scared and he wanted _Bruce_ , not whatever persona the person besides him was.

The elder looked down on him, and for a second he was scared that the too wide smile wasn’t going to go away. But then it softened and it was _his_ Bruce again, the real Bruce, and Dick felt overwhelmingly relieved.

“You alright, chum?”

 _Not really_ , was what he wanted to say, but he didn’t. Instead he gave a small nod and an even smaller smile, giving the man’s hand another squeeze. Bruce squeezed back, and they made their way across the bright red carpet and to the massive ornate doors, lights flashing and people shouting out questions all the while.

When they finally entered the building, it wasn’t much better. The grand room was filled to the brim with fake looking people dressed to the nines and stretched smiles and cold eyes. Everywhere Dick looked all he could see was fakeness. _Fake, fake, fake_. Even Bruce’s smile had turned too wide again, leaving the secure grip on Dick’s own hand the only real thing in the entire scenario.

And then the guests converged. Suddenly, there were women pinching his cheeks and men ruffling his hair and everyone was asking questions- mainly to Bruce, but also to him- and introducing themselves and the colours became too bright and the noise too much and _has an hour passed yet? Please say an hour’s passed…_

An hour had not passed.

But Bruce was by his side, providing a reassuring weight on Dick’s shoulder with his palm. Giving him small tiny smiles when no one was looking, sometimes covertly gesturing at the occasional incredibly overzealous costume, his eyes twinkling as if to say _Get a load of that!,_ and Dick was scared and nervous and a jittering mess, hardly making it through his polite _Thank you_ ’s and _I’m Dick Grayson, nice to meet you_ ’s that Alfred had spent hours drilling into him, but with Bruce by his side, it wasn’t _all bad_ . It was, it was _tolerable,_ at the very least.

But then some fancy socialite was _physically lifting him away from Bruce_ in order “to get a better look at him” and he lost Bruce’s hand on his shoulder and _No, no, no, no, not happening, not happening_ -

The socialite finished giving him a “proper look over” and slapped him on the back, hard, in what was probably meant to be a friendly gesture. Then the other left and Dick was left stranded, alone, _away from Bruce_.

But- But that was okay. The situation was still salvageable. He just had to get back to his guardian, that was all, and then everything would be fine.

It was easier thought than done, however, because the minute Dick had left Bruce’s side, his spot had been filled. Bruce was just, _surrounded_ by people. By elderly men with greedy looks in their eyes and young woman with skimpy outfits and everything and everyone in between. And there was just _no room_ for him to squeeze through.

He tried to, anyways.

“Um, I- Excuse me! I’m, I’m really sorry, but- but would you mind, just, just letting me through? Please!? I, uh-”

But it was hopeless; no one listened to him or his quiet, stuttered words- English was _hard_ \- Bruce couldn’t see him or hear him over the crowd, and everyone was just _ignoring_ him, their far larger frames getting in the way of his pathway to Bruce and then pushing him further back, until he was lost in the sea of mingling socialites, Bruce nowhere in sight.

He ended up by the snacks table, something solid behind his back while his eyes scanned for his guardian, but it was no use. He was just so- short. He was short. And he was unable to spot the elder man, even on the very tips of his toes.

And that… that really sucked.

It was by the mountains of towering food that Dick realized that the attention of the socialites had turned on him once again. He was suddenly the focus of the nearby crowd, and their cool unforgiving eyes were hardened upon him, judging him, and all he could do was tug slightly at the sleeves of his suit, eyes scanning even more frantically for Bruce even as the hushed conversation entered his ears.

_“Circus freak-”_

_“Trash.”_

_“Why would Brucie even take him in?”_

_“Gypsy… can’t be trusted-”_

_“Give him a weak, at most-”_

_“Charity case-”_

And the tears were back, making his eyes watery, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care because there was panic building in his chest and his breaths weren’t coming out right _and if Bruce could show up right now, that would be really great and_ -

Bruce didn’t show up, and Dick was lost once more to the mingling crowds.

He ended up in a corner of the grand ballroom, a small tiny nook and cranny slightly away from all of the action that led to a servant's staircase of some sorts. The lights were dimmed, but the stairs were clean, and Dick sat down on it feeling exhausted and tired and miserable and lonely and _he would really like to go home, wherever that was, now, please, away from all the mean voices and judgmental gazes and everything was just too much_ -

And then he was crying, hiding his head in his knees and feeling bad because Alfred had _just_ bought him the suit and it must have been _so expensive_ and now he was covering it with snot and tears but he _just couldn’t stop_ and-

Someone crouched down in front of him.

“You alright, kid?’

Dick looked up, eyes red and watery and small sniffles still escaping.

The thin man in the non-fancy tweed suit looked back, giving him something of a smile in greeting.

And- and the smile wasn’t necessarily a _nice_ smile, but it wasn’t one of the too wide fake ones that he had been seeing constantly throughout the night, and it was obvious that the man was trying to be concerned and comforting, even if he wasn’t very good at it, and so Dick nodded a little and rubbed at his eyes.

“Y-yeah. I-I’m okay. I- Thank you.”

He would have said more, but his throat hurt, and he was tired.

Had an hour passed yet? _Surely_ an hour had passed by this point.

Had Bruce realized? Was he looking for him?

Probably not, meaning that he would have to find Bruce and go from there.

“You sure? Is there anythin’ I can do for ya?”

Dick hardly heard the man’s words.

He bit his lip; he wouldn’t be able to find Bruce by himself. And that meant he wouldn’t get to leave. And that meant staying in this horrid place even _longer_.

But- but this man had offered to help! Maybe he could help him find Bruce?

“Umm, uh, ac- actually, would, would you mind-”

He didn’t get any farther than that, because the thin man was bulldozing over him all of sudden, leaning into his personal space and the situation went from being _Okay, if slightly sucky_ \- he was out of the crowd, someone might be able to help him find Bruce, he would be able to go back to the manor soon- to _Bad, bad, bad, bad_ in mere moments.

“Great! If ya don’t need anythin’ can I ask you some questions? How’s it like livin’ with _the_ Bruce Wayne, kid? Is he nice? Is he spoiling you? Is he treatin' you rotten?”

Dick stared at the elder in incomprehension. The man was taking out something that suspiciously looked like a recorder, and he was just so _confused_. Wasn’t the man offering his help but a few moments ago?

“W-What?”

The man’s eyes gleamed, but in a greedy, cruel way, and Dick was liking this less and less by the minute.

“Is that it, kid? Is the man hurtin’ ya? Is he hittin’ ya? Are ya sufferin’ from abuse?”

And-  and no, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all, but the man just wouldn’t listen to him and-

“I- I- No. No- Bruce, Bruce is good. He’s, he’s really great, actually, and-”

“Ya don’t have to lie to me, kid! ‘Ol Brucie ‘ll never know if you tell me the truth. Is he threatenin’ ya? Is that why ya won’t squeal?”

_Less and less and less._

“Wha-What? No! No, Bruce- Bruce would never hurt me. He’s, he’s really nice, and-”

The words weren't forming right in his mouth, and the man just kept leaning in closer, and his stomach was clenching again, his lungs constricting until there just wasn’t enough _air_ , and no matter how far he leaned back the man just leaned in further. And he didn’t like this, he didn’t like this, he didn’t like this _at all_.

_He wanted to go home, he wanted to go home, he wanted to go home-_

“Is he forcin’ ya to do stuff you’re uncomfortable with? C’mon kid, give me a bite. What’s the story?”

Reporter. This man was a reporter. Dick suddenly felt so _stupid_ , because _of course the guy was a reporter_ , and if he wasn’t feeling so panicky and _trapped_ he would have slapped his own forehead.

As it was…

“I- I, uh, I gotta go!”

He stood up, weaving around the reporter’s crouched frame and towards the exit of the staircase, back to the mingling throngs of people. He was almost halfway there when the other caught up with him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Where ya goin’ kid? I’m just askin’ some questions!”

Dick shrugged the appendage off with some difficulty, hurrying back down the steps as soon as he was free.

“I- Bruce says ‘m not supposed to talk to reporters!”

And then he was almost home free, actually escaping the confines of the staircase and on his way towards the mingling throngs of people when the man caught up with him again, this time grabbing his wrist.

“Why are you so eager to get away!? What’s Bruce hidin’!? Tell me, kid, tell me!”

And it was too much. It was too much, and the man’s grip was painfully tight, untrimmed nails biting into his flesh no matter how he twisted and tugged at his wrist. And he didn’t like this, _he didn’t like this_. He just wanted everything to stop. He wanted to get away, and it hurt, it hurt, and the guy was asking him about his parents- _pale lifeless bodies cracking against the ground, and there’s blood everywhere, and oh God, no, no, no, please no, they can’t be dead, they can’t_ \- and-

“Sto-Stop! You’re hurting me! Stop!”

His voice was rising in pitch, louder and louder, and he was starting to attract attention and tears were now streaming down his face and people were staring- _He was causing a scene, he didn’t want to cause a scene, why couldn’t he not cause a scene!?_ \- but, but he didn’t really care anymore because he was scared and he needed help. He wanted to go _home_ , but he didn’t even know where that _was_ anymore and, and-

He wanted his mom. He wanted his dad. He wanted someone to just come and make all the bad things go away, to hold him and comfort him until the world was a little better and he was okay again and- And he wanted- He just- He just wanted-

“B-Bruce! BRUCE! H-Help! BRUUCEEE!”

And he was outright screaming. And the reporter finally seemed to realize that people were staring, and now he was trying to calm Dick down. But Dick didn’t want to calm down, he wanted Bruce, and the guy’s grip was really starting to hurt now and-

And then suddenly the hand grasping his wrist was gone and there was the sound of someone’s fist cracking solidly against someone’s nose but, more importantly, he was being swept up into large strong arms, cradled to a man’s chest as if he could be protected from the rest of the world by that sheer gesture alone and _Oh, Bruce_ \- because he would recognize his guardian’s grip anywhere- and he could relax now, things would be okay, everything was going to be _okay_.

But he was still shaking, sobbing maybe a little pathetically into Bruce’s shoulder, and his wrist hurt and everything around him was unnaturally silent but he didn’t dare look up, because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stand the stares, and-

And Bruce was chewing the reporter out, even as he slowly slipped a hand though Dick’s hair. He heard the guy sputter, and Bruce very nearly _growled,_ and then the sounds of the journalist dropping his things and practically _running_ away.

And then there was silence, except for Dick’s own sniffling sobs.

But then Bruce was gently tugging his head out of its hidden crook between the elder’s neck and shoulder, and he didn’ _t want to_ , but he did so anyways, because Bruce was staring at him with worried eyes, free hand fluttering gently around his face.

“Dick, Dick, you alright, chum? Did he hurt you? I- Jesus, Dick, you scared me; I couldn’t find you _anywhere_ and- and that’s not important. Are you okay?”

Dick stared at him- only at him, because he wanted to ignore their massive, judging audience- and his eyes were still wet and scratchy and he was still so _tired_ and panicky in his chest, that constant ache for _safety_ and _home_ yet to be soothed, but it was, _somehow_ , better now that Bruce was here, and so he gathered his strength before tentatively showing his wrist to his guardian.

The skin was bright red from all his squirming and the tight grip, small crescent moons of blood left behind from the man’s nails.

Bruce looked absolutely _livid_ , and for a few moments Dick thought the anger was aimed at _him_ , but then, no, the elder’s face was calming and he was examining Dick’s wounded appendage with gentle touches and a concerned air, and maybe Bruce wasn’t the _best_ at this parenting thing, but he was certainly getting _better_.

But Dick was just so, so tired, and he honestly didn’t think he could take much more of the judgemental stares and the slowly seeping gossipy whispers that had begun to filter into his ears, filling up the prior silence.

“Bruce? Has- has an hour passed yet?”

His words were mumbled, because he had hidden his face in Bruce’s neck again, hugging the older man for all his worth. And maybe Bruce understood that that meant he needed a little comfort, because he was slowly, tentatively, placing an arm around Dick in return, humming slightly under his breath as they made their way out of the building.

“Yeah, chum, we’re good. Let’s go home.”

And so they went.

And hours later, they were sitting in front of some random Disney movie- _Treasure Planet_ , he was pretty sure, although he was really too tired to care- and Dick’s head was heavy on Bruce’s shoulder, his stomach full from ice cream and his tears long since dried, and he thinks, _Oh, home_.

He smiled and fell asleep, his question finally answered.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy!!!!


End file.
